


Father From The Truth

by twelvicity (Rii)



Series: Little Bears and Little Hearts [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bottom Iron Bull, Father-Child Relationship, Fatherhood, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Explicit Sex, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Top Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rii/pseuds/twelvicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus decide whether or not to add another child to their family, Dorian gets advice from his mother, and both of them struggle with definitions of fatherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father From The Truth

The whole affair started when Bull asked for Dorian to be on top, one night.  In his specific words: “Dorian, I want you to take me from behind and ride me until you can’t come any more.”

Certainly not the usual request from the Bull, but Dorian was in the business of giving him what he wanted.  He was already in his smallclothes, besides, and had asked what Bull was in the mood for in the first place.

“Mixing it up, are we?  Shall I get the oil, then?” Dorian said, keeping his voice light, glossing over his mingling excitement.

“If you think you’ll need it,” Bull said.

There was a dry pause, with Dorian reaching for the lubricating oil on the nearby bureau.

“I want you to use the other hole, I mean,” Bull said.  “Don’t know if we’ll need much for that.”

“...pardon?”

“Like when we were trying for the girls.”

They’d rarely engaged in this manner since.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I remember it feeling real good.  I could use that, today,” Bull said, stretching out on his stomach on their bed.  “Think there’s a storm coming, my joints have been aching something awful.”

Dorian held the pot of oil in his hands, for lack of a better action.  “If that’s what you’d like to do.  Just…”

Bull looked over his shoulder, propping himself up on his elbows.  “Just?”

“Is there any… risk, carrying on like this again?”

“How do you mean?” Bull said.

“Well, that you’ll…”  Dorian gestured vaguely, uncomfortably.  “Conceive.”

“Ah.  Uh… I think that would depend on if I’d been taking that medicine or not,” Bull said.  “I mean, I think.”

“Well, you haven’t been taking that medicine, have you?”

“Er, no, but…” There, Bull turned around to sit up, back propped against the pillows.  “Hey, what’s the harm if we end up having another kid?  Doesn’t seem that bad.”  He was wearing one of his deflecting smiles.

Dorian looked back at him with a fragile, loving kind of worry.  “Do you… want to raise another child?”

Bull shrugged.  “Might be nice,” he said.  “We got a lot less to worry about, these days.  Seems more reasonable.”

“Bull,” Dorian said, “do you _want_ another child?”

Bull’s smile faded into an apologetic shadow, and he sighed.  “No, not if you don’t want another one.  That’s fine.”

“But I - never said that,” Dorian said.

(Though his face, his tone, had told Bull everything, and Dorian knew this.)

“It’s all right, I understand,” Bull said, looking agonizingly at peace.  “It wasn’t a serious thought, anyways.”

“No, no, no.”  Dorian put down the pot of oil and sat on the edge of the bed, holding Bull’s left hand in both of his hands.  “You must understand, I - _want_ to be able to do this for you, but…”

“Kadan,” Bull said, looking at him with a clear eye and without regret, “it’s _okay_.”

“No, it’s not that - it’s nothing to do with _me_ ,” Dorian said.  “I... worry about your _health,_ is all.”

“My health?” Bull said. 

“Yes.  You’re still…”  He made a wavy gesture with one hand, before returning it to Bull’s.  “I can still see your _ribs_ , for the love of the Maker.  You’re not _recovered._ ”

“Yeah, I could stand to eat a little more,” Bull said, shrugging.  “But I’m sure my body could handle it.”

Dorian’s voice struggled with excuses.  “Well, the state of your body notwithstanding - the girls are nearly _twelve_ , Bull, is it truly sensible to bring a newborn into the family?”

“We could adopt, I guess.  An older kid.”

Dorian closed his eyes, and he held Bull’s hand tighter.  “Amatus, I… I don’t know.  I - I don’t know if I’m _ready_ for that, again,” he said, hating himself with every word.  “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, Dorian.  I won’t make you,” Bull replied, warmly, evenly.  Dorian could feel his enormous hand resting on top of his two.

This was not a relief.  Dorian’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. 

“Don’t beat yourself up, kadan,” Bull said.  “It’s not really that important.  Just a thought I had.”

“It’s something you _want_ ,” Dorian said.

“Not something I need,” Bull replied.  “It’s fine.”

Dorian, who knew Bull, who knew their history, knew that this was a lie.

Bull said some things about how they didn’t need to make love that night - exactly that phrase, those words, “make love,” which was usually enough to make Dorian melt with adoration at the beautiful sap.  But all Dorian wanted to do was settle miserably into the crook of Bull’s arm, feeling the bones under Bull’s skin as his chest rose and fell.

He had made a vow.  He had promised to try and give his beloved anything he wanted.  He could not even try, here.

The worries about Bull’s body, about their age - those were legitimate, but they were hollow excuses in the face of the greater reason: all these years, and Dorian still couldn’t tell himself that he was a good father.

(That, without intending it, he would bring his children to hate him.)

(That, despite all his best efforts and intentions, he would become his father.)

(This was the delusion under which Dorian labored, especially in the crises of the recent years.)

Ursula and Cora were getting to be the age - they _were_ the age, already - when he’d begun acting out, as a child.  They had every reason to do so, every reason to feel resentful - separated from each other without warning, lied to, and how could he forget the danger that they’d been put into on account of his own foolishness?  He wanted to be a good father, he certainly _tried_ , but what his daughters had been through was so much more to bear than the trifling anxieties of his own childhood.  Had he been in their shoes, surely, he’d have given a whole new _definition_ to Acting Out.

The last thing his world needed, for so many reasons, was to bring another child into his family.  He was barely spending enough time with his two _existing_ children - how much would a new sibling distract, detract from them?  What _more_ could he do to put distance between them?

(And then, of course, all that self-loathing, thoughts that he didn’t deserve another chance to raise a child well, that he was even _thinking_ of such a possibility as a second chance.)

All of this, flaring and welling up over a single proposition.  An idea, Bull had said, not even a serious one.

(Lies, all.)

He needed assurance, one from a critical source, that could not be misconstrued as anything close to self-delusion or arrogance.  Something that would not tell him what he wanted to hear.

He realized, eventually, that he would be best-off talking to his mother about all of this.  If anyone knew the kind of situation he was trying to _avoid_ , it would be her.

She told him as such, when they met for wine and nibbles some afternoons later, lazily reclined on a veranda at her home in Qarinus.  “Doing a better job than your _father?_ ” she said, after Dorian asked.  “What kind of a question is that?”

“A ludicrous one, to be sure, but I’m curious,” Dorian said, lightly.

Aquinea smirked into her wine glass.  She was pushing seventy, now, but her hair was defiantly dark, and her wrinkles were tamed into the tasteful corners of her mouth and eyes.  “You’re certainly earning your pay in the Magisterium, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

“A relief, to be sure,” Dorian said.  “What of my family, then?”

“Your family?”

“You seem like a fair enough judge for it.”

Her expression turned suddenly serious.  “My darling boy, if you’re holding yourself up to your father, you are comparing diamonds to dross.  You’re doing a wonderful job.”

This was possibly the kindest thing his mother had ever said about him.  Dorian had to put down his wine glass.  “You truly mean it?”

“Well, last I checked, you weren’t shipping them off to some Orlesian academy because their teachers couldn’t handle them,” Aquinea replied.  She took another sip from her glass, and her voice was magnified from it.  “And they’re shockingly well-behaved, considering you’re their father.  And the whole oxman thing.”

“Mother, you and I both know that public behavior is no indication of private opinion,” Dorian said, cloaking himself in distance and disinterest.  “They’re well-behaved, certainly, but who knows what they really think?”

“Those girls adore you, Dorian, and I’ll not hear another word to the contrary.”

The look on Aquinea’s face was hard and pitying all at once.  She’d put down her glass, now, and was sitting up more.

“Honestly, if _that’s_ what you’re worried about then you’re being _exceedingly_ foolish,” she continued.  “Unlike a certain someone who-shall-not-be-named, you’ve given them _no_ reason to resent you.”

“Mother, honestly, have you not been paying attention to the goings-on, these past few years?” Dorian said.  He could feel himself growing flushed, flustered.  “I haven’t exactly been providing an ideal environment for them.”

Aquinea groaned, and she reached for her wine glass again.  “ _Stop_ it with this self-loathing nonsense, Dorian, it’s _extremely_ unbecoming,” she said.  “We’re comparing you to your father, here, are we?  Very well, then.  If there’s _anything_ you’ve given to those children that he never gave you, it’s the impression that you _care_.”

“...what?”

“Maybe not the best phrase to use…”  Aquinea put a hand on her chin, thinking.  “So, things have been less-than-ideal for them.  Ursa, at least, knew you weren’t satisfied with the state of things, and that you were _trying_ to change them.  More than your father ever did for you.”

“How - is that even something _you_ can tell?” Dorian said.  After all, where had _Aquinea_ been for him? Everything was so suddenly and unbearably hot - his face, his breath.

Aquinea replied with a withering glance.  “I have tea with the girl practically every day for the last four years and you don’t think I notice some things?” she said.  “Whenever she complained about you, it was always the _circumstances_ and not your _behavior_ that she faulted.  Things like your work or that silly war.”

Dorian frowned, frustrated.

“Oh, and now you’re pouting?  Dorian, _honestly_.”  She sat up more fully in her chaise, swinging her legs over the side to look at him directly.  “You have made _very_ certain that you care about them, and that, for all your failings, you’re at least _trying_ to do well for them.  I don’t even think I’ve heard you talk about your _expectations_ for them and their behavior without irony, either.”

This was, he realized, his mother’s version of a pep talk.  Of course, the entire thing felt like she was keeping a ledger to balance the compliments with barbs.

“If you don’t believe me, go ask them yourself.  Don’t be a coward about it.”  She reached for her wine glass, again, and swirled the dregs with an air of disappointment.  “And now I’m out of wine.  Be a dear and refill my glass, won’t you?”

Dorian sighed, tossed his hair over his shoulder, and obeyed, fully intending to refill his own glass.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in a hazy sort of reverie, reflecting on his - sigh, yes, his mother had gotten it in one - cowardice.  The _least_ he could do was ask outright if the girls had any grievances.

He asked at dinner, some days later, with a clearer mind and a stouter heart.

(And Bull there to hear it, besides.)

“Uh… you’re doing fine, Papa, why are you asking?” was Ursula’s response.

“Well, my colleagues and constituents have the right to evaluate my work and offer feedback, so why shouldn’t my daughters have the same right?” Dorian said.

“Okay, like…?” she continued.

“What can I do to _improve_ things around here?” Dorian said.  “Be honest.”

Ursula look like she was trying to eat a lemon slice, words clotting on her tongue.  “I can’t… really think of anything, but I’ll let you know if I do…?”

“Yeah, same...” Cora added.

“Oh, come, now, surely there’s something I can do better,” Dorian said.  “Would you like for me to be home, more?”

“Your work is important, Papa, it’s fine,” Cora said.

“Yeah, I’m gone at lessons most of the day, anyway,” Ursula said.

“Girls, if you want more time with me, I want to _know_ ,” Dorian said.  “Or if you feel I’m not here for you if you need me.”

Bull gave Dorian a sympathetic, almost saddened glance across the table.  A worried expression.

“Papa, is… everything all right?” Cora said.

“Yeah, you’re acting weird,” Ursula added.

Dorian sighed.  “You two are far too good to me,” he said.

Ursula’s sour mouth was a fixed frown, now.  “You said we should be honest with you.  So you be honest with us.  What’s going on?”

Dorian couldn’t help but release a knowing, resigned sigh of laughter.  Too good, and too smart.  “I’ve been feeling… negligent, lately.  I just want to make sure I’m doing all I can for you all.”

“Papa, come _on_ ,” Ursula said.  “You’re _fine_.”

“You really _are_ , Papa…” Cora said.  “You’re not at home all the time, but it’s not like me and Ursula are, either...”

“A valid point, my girl, but I still do worry,” Dorian said.

Ursula sighed.  “Tama, _you_ tell him,” she said.  “He’ll listen to you.”

“Dorian, you’re doing fine,” Bull said.

A squirming, insistent suggestion floated to the front of Dorian’s mind, summoned by Bull’s voice.

(His wants, his needs.)

“If… we were to have another child in the house, one that might keep me and your tama a little busier than usual, would you tell me _then_ if you needed more time with me?”

Cora’s smile was as quick and bright as a candle flame.  “Is Tama having a baby?!” she said, a rare level of volume in her voice.

“No, no, he’s - not,” Dorian said.  He could feel himself blushing, avoiding Bull’s eye.  “At least, not right now.  We’ve been discussing.”

“Oh, but that would be wonderful…!” Cora said.  “Ursula, can you imagine?”

“A for-real little sister…”  Ursula’s mouth was wide with a daydream.

“Or a little brother, Ursa…” Cora said.

“A for-real little sister or brother…”

“Well, for a hypothetical, you two are certainly… enthusiastic,” Dorian said.  He chanced a sheepish look in Bull’s direction.

Bull was wearing a gentle, open, surprised smile.  He was _surprised_.

“If you and Tama have a baby?  I’m totally helping,” Ursula said.  “Like, I can do diapers and stuff.  I think.  I can learn!”

“I’d be happy to help out, too,” Cora said.  “I mean, it takes a lot of work, taking care of a baby.”

“We might be adopting - an older child, I mean,” Dorian said.  “It depends on what your tama wants.”

(Wants, or needs.)

“Well, if _that’s_ what’s got you all antsy, Papa, that’s nothing!” Ursula said.  “I thought it was something serious.  Like, you’d lost your job, or something.”

“Perish the thought!” Dorian said.  “Wherever do you get such ideas?”

“I dunno,” Ursula said.

Bull hadn’t stopped smiling.  Seeing this, Dorian couldn’t either.

Of course, this wasn’t a permanent thing.  Bull was a creature of certainty and confirmation, and as such he touched base with Dorian on the matter in private, later that night, as they prepared for bed.

“Dorian, I appreciate the gesture, but you really don’t have to force yourself into this if you don’t...” he began.

Dorian did not let him go any further.  “I’m not forcing myself,” he said.  “I’m… not afraid anymore, amatus.”

“You were afraid?”

“Well… more worried, really,” Dorian said.  “About the girls.  If having another child… would be hard for them to handle.  But, well, you heard them…”

“So, you… want to go through with this?” Bull said, still sounding hesitant.

“I want to give you what you want,” Dorian said.  He took both of Bull’s hands, standing across from him, chest to chest.  “Yes.  I want to go through with this.”

There was an uneasy mix of love and apprehension on Bull’s face.  “Guess we should start touring orphanages or something, huh?” he said, laughing halfway through his words.

“So you want to adopt?” Dorian said.

“Sure.  Seems like the more sensible thing to do.”

Dorian gave him a very stern look.  “But is that what you _want?_ ”

“Kadan, you said yourself you were worried about…”  Dorian’s resolute silence doused his words.  “Honestly, Dorian, it wouldn’t be practical.”

“I don’t care about practicality,” Dorian said.  “I care about what you _want_.”

Bull looked at his hands, clasped within Dorian’s, and he sighed.  “...it might not even work, I don’t know if I’ll need to take the medicine again or not.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t try,” Dorian said.

“And if it doesn’t… work?”

“We shall adopt!  Plenty of children that need homes, I’m sure.”

Bull chuckled.  “Sure, sure…”

“I’m sure we’ll succeed, though,” Dorian said.  “We’re both of us still quite youthful, after all.”

Bull’s reply was a gently-faded smile.

“Bull,” Dorian said, squeezing Bull’s hands, firmly, surely, “I will give you a child.”

Bull’s smile widened, turning almost flustered.  “That’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever said to me, kadan.”

“Excuse me!” Dorian said, more clearly flustered, but laughing.  “Here I am, making extravagant promises to you, and you turn it into a matter of the _bedroom_.”

Bull shrugged.  “How else are we gonna make this kid?”

“...a fair point!” Dorian said.  “But, still, there’s such a thing as tact.”

“Sorry,” Bull said, half-laughing.

Dorian held his hand to Bull’s face, a tender gesture.  “Now, now.  Nothing to apologize for,” he said.  “We’re fine.”

\--

Quite typically, Bull took to the task going forward with very much caution and very few expectations.

He and Dorian had come to an understanding that, if Bull wanted to stop trying, they would stop.  If his body could not handle the strain of growing another child, he wouldn’t force it to.

He wasn’t doing this for Dorian.  He was doing this for an irrational, selfish reason.  He was doing this for himself.

He had to admit, he’d used the bedroom proposition in the hopes that it would open the conversation.  This was such a long shot of a request, of a want, that it felt improper to ask point-blank, not with Dorian so busy, not with all the factors stacked against him.

Regret charged his wants, his actions, a regret he despised.  Nothing mattered but the present, he told himself.  There was nothing he could do about the childhood he’d given his daughters, however good or bad it objectively was.  By all rights, he should have remained content with the freedom and ease that he and his husband now had to raise them in.

(His husband, _my husband,_ a phrase that still sent flutters of joy through his blood when he thought of it, even months after the fact.  A phrase he’d once thought ornamental, even useless.)

Yet, the want remained.  He wanted to bring a life into the world that was his own child, from the start.  Not some foreign growth, a discomfort endured for Dorian’s sake, but an entirely new person, one that would not have existed without his body and his blood. 

If he were to have another child, it would be a chance to do things right, to give them the benefit of his truest care and feelings.  To have a childhood where both parents were completely emotionally engaged, supportive - and where there was no danger.

Of course, putting it all that way made him feel selfish - negligent, even, with regards to the twins.  But Dorian _wanted_ for him to be selfish, and the girls…  They loved him, even when he felt he didn’t deserve their love. 

(And that look of joy on Ursula’s face, when Dorian had brought up the possibility of a sibling...)

He was doing this for himself, yes, and he had the love and support of his family behind him, wanting this in parallel. 

The only other obstacle was his body.  This was an easier battle, relatively, one he could fight with food and medicine.  And he fought _most_ enthusiastically, with rich, winter foods, and bitter but necessary herbs.

He waited.  For failure, for success, for a sign of _something_.  His body got softer, tender in some places, but little else.  His belly grew plumper, but from welcome fat, from food. 

Months passed, autumn tumbling with biting winds into winter.  Dorian waxed lovingly about how usefully warm he was, on those colder nights, especially with him recovering so.  “And much easier to embrace, if I may be so bold,” he added, at one point, rubbing his head against Bull’s chest while they were entwined in bed.  “Mm, soft…”

They entwined in other ways, of course, when Bull felt up for it.  Dorian was almost gentle with him, exquisite in his touches, but there was a fervor, a passion in his lovemaking that grew as time went on.  There was a purpose driving him, a reason greater than pleasure behind his actions.  He was providing a service, taking Bull’s place, and he was doing a _marvelous_ job of it.

(Having the dynamic reversed like this, once he’d fully recognized what was happening, made the experience that much more thrilling for Bull.  The same was true for Dorian, of course.)

(Dorian was going to give him a child, a promise that ran hotly through blood and breath.)

They were, both of them, doing everything they could.  Nothing bled, or ran, but nothing grew, either.  In his more poetic moods, Bull couldn’t help but compare himself to his garden.  If anything was getting ready to grow, there was certainly no indication of it.  All that was left was patience, and faith.

Spring came with gentle winds and sprouts like green fingers reaching out of the earth.  A kind of optimism filled the house, the sort that came with newly-cleaned rooms and air-dried clothes.  Possibilities and promises all seemed equally in reach.

Still, Bull kept his expectations low.  He refused to let tiny pains and twinges cascade into false positives or panics, in his mind, waiting for a more certain sign of loss or victory.

\--

Bull was thinning out carrots, removing the weaker roots to make room for the better ones, when he felt a strange, strong flutter in his mid-chest.  Not from any sort of muscle, or digestion.  He paused, waiting, then felt it again.

He pressed a hand against his stomach, and the faint push of a foot back came in reply.

_Hello, imekari._

Dorian was quite alarmed to come into the garden and find Bull sitting on a bench, breathing like he was trying to get through another panic attack.  “Bull, what’s the matter?” he said, rushing to him.  “Are you all right?”

Bull sniffed, and swallowed, and smiled.  “It took,” he said.

“What…?”

“It took, kadan,” he said, and he looked at Dorian with a water-logged smile.  “I can feel it.”

Dorian sank, slowly, to his knees before him.  “You mean…?”

Bull took one of his hands, and pressed it to his stomach.

For a moment, nothing.  Dorian looked back, sympathetic in his disappointment.

“No, no, wait,” Bull said, pressing more insistently on Dorian’s hand.

Prompted by hand, or voice, it wasn’t certain, but there was a stirring in response, unmistakable and alive.

Dorian gasped in delight.  “Amatus…!”

“You did it,” Bull said.

“ _We_ did it,” Dorian said, laughing,

There were no words besides gentle laughter, following, their hands on each others’ hands and the miracle they’d created out of want.

The preparations that followed felt well-practiced, despite the distance in time, with the setting-up of a nursery, and the information of relevant parties.  Bull wrote to Stitches, since neither of them could think of anyone else with relevant experience for their situation, who promised to stop by the villa as soon as he could manage.  Dorian, on his end, announced a leave of absence from the Magisterium to spend more time with his family, though not so-explicitly as to say it was because he and his husband were expecting another child.

(Dorian’s mother seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in the news, herself.  Not so much for the prospect of another grandchild to lavish with affection in the name of spoiling them or annoying her husband - which was the case, though she would never admit it - but for the amount of discomfort the means of production seemed to give to Halward, when the subject came up.)

(How Dorian had acquired his children was, in his opinion, something best kept out of his mind.  He preferred to focus on the more… mentally-savory stories behind Dorian’s other successes.)

(Halward justified this in his mind by telling himself he’d be equally uncomfortable imagining his son sharing the carnal bed with a woman, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, surely.)

The girls, at least, were exceedingly excited, least of which with the prospect of spending the entire summer with their parents and new sibling - a little sister, if Ursula had anything to say about it.

“I mean, sure, it’s okay if I get a little brother,” she would explain, defensively, whenever the subject came up.  “I mean, that would be all _right_ , I guess.”

“I kind of hope we have a boy,” Bull told Dorian, privately, in one of their bed-time chats.  “It doesn’t matter, in the end, but we could use a change of pace around here, after nothing but the girls.”

“I don’t care _what_ we end up having,” Dorian said, resting his hand on Bull’s stomach.  “Son or daughter, they’ll be welcome.”

“Of course, kadan.”

(The pleasant idea of having a son wasn’t strong enough to be considered a Want.)

\--

A curious thing that Dorian noticed, with regards to their third child, was how very much reversed his and Bull’s reactions towards it were.  Yes, certainly, there was the fact that this was a child that Bull had asked for, rather than the other way around, but there was more to it than that.

Dorian would catch his husband on his own, reclined in a chair or otherwise relaxing, drumming his hands on his belly and humming, or talking to the child.  Dorian had done this, one or twice, when the girls were on the way, but he’d always felt terribly sappy or embarrassed about it after the fact.  Perhaps that was why Bull always seemed to stretch and deny he’d been doing anything if Dorian ever made his presence known.

And then there were the little conversations, the anticipations and the plans that they _did_ share with each other.  Testing out a theory, one night, Dorian said, “Why don’t you name this one?  Only fair.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that,” Bull said.

“Anything in mind, yet?”

Bull breathed in through his nose, thinking, before shaking his head a little.  “Nah.  I’ll know when it’s born, though.”

Dorian laughed a little, mostly at himself.  “Ah, fair enough.  Can’t name something you don’t yet know, I imagine.”

“Nah, I feel like I know this little guy pretty well already, actually,” Bull said.

“Oh?”

“Mm.  This one… likes music.”

“Music?” Dorian said.  The humming, hidden asides came immediately to mind.

“Yeah, and listening.  Likes to act up a bunch when things get loud or when I’m talking,” Bull continued.  “Kind of reminds me of you.”

“Ha!  How so?”

“Can’t go half a second without making your opinion known on anything, kadan.”

“That is - actually fairly true,” Dorian said, a reluctant chuckle breaking up the sentence.

“Dorian Pavus the Second sounds a little too… fancy, for me, though,” Bull continued.

“Whatever it is you decide on,” Dorian told him, “I’m sure it will be absolutely lovely.”

The other plans and preparations were gentle, almost slow. Krem had _really_ done wonders for the group as a company, as far as staffing went, so they didn’t have to travel en masse any more, so  Stitches and a handful of Chargers staff took up residence near the villa once it was established that the baby would arrive within another month.  And, yes, there was only _one_ in there, this time.  Bull wanted to be _sure_.

Half-abandoned hobbies were revived to pass the time - namely, knitting, which resulted in many afternoons where Ursula would shirk her lessons to knit clothes for her imminent little sister.  (And, no, nothing could convince her otherwise that this would be the case.)  Bull chatted and knit along, though a bit more slowly, and with far less pink involved in his garments.

The family was waiting.  They were, by all definitions, ready.

(But none of them were perhaps as ready, as quietly eager as Bull.)

(He couldn’t wait to meet the imekari he already dearly loved, and perhaps even knew.)

\--

On a hot, flower-wilting summer afternoon, Dorian Pavus’s third daughter was born.

She came into the world bright-red and screaming, almost furiously, and she did not let up until she was well-swaddled and in Dorian’s arms. 

Dorian had convinced himself that he wouldn’t get emotional, this time around, what with all the time that had passed and the matter-of-factness he’d managed to maintain throughout the whole business.  

He didn’t even last five seconds.  “Oh, amatus, she’s beautiful.  Look at this sweet face…!”

“Yeah,” Bull managed, still catching his breath.

Dorian didn’t allow himself much time with her, putting her right back into Bull’s arms once he’d had his fill.  And there she stayed for the rest of the evening, even as her sisters came by to see her. 

(Ursula was absolutely _triumphant_.)

Dorian supposed he couldn’t fault the man, given how long he’d waited and how hard they’d worked to make her.  And she _was_ incredibly cute, once one got past the just-born wrinkles and all.

When evening fell and Bull suggested he wanted to sleep, he was hesitant in letting Dorian take her.  “She’ll still be here in the morning, amatus, it’s all right,” Dorian said, holding his arms out in offering.

Still, Bull kept looking at her, not letting go, a strangely melancholy look on his face.

“Bull, what’s the matter?” Dorian said.

“...I’m sorry, Dorian,” he finally replied.

“ _Sorry?_ ” Dorian sputtered.  “Whatever are you apologizing for?”

“I… wanted to give you a son.”

“Give - give me a son?” Dorian said.  There was uncomfortable, disbelieving laughter.  “Bull, I don’t... _need_ a son.”

Bull kept his eyes lowered. 

“If I gave you the impression - _at all_ \- that this was what I wanted…” Dorian continued.

“If I were to have another child, I could have at least given you one that could carry on your…”  Bull sighed, trailing off.  “Never mind, kadan, it’s all right.”

“No.”  Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his hands near his husband, their new daughter.  “I don’t care _who_ this little one is or ends up being.  Son, daughter - this is our child, and I would never ask for anything else.”

Bull didn’t say anything.

“We had this child for _you_ , not me,” Dorian continued, gently.  “There’s no need for… usefulness, or anything like that.  And, besides, _Ursula_ is carrying on the name, yes?  There’s no need at all to worry about such things.”

Bull didn’t say anything.

“The only thing this child needs to do is _be_ here,” Dorian said, putting a hand on her head, stroking her forehead with his thumb.  “She’s not going to be anyone’s heir or have any name to live up to.  She is just here because we wanted her.”

There, one tear, then another, tumbled down Bull’s cheek.  “I’m sorry, Dorian…”

Dorian settled himself as comfortably as he could next to Bull, laying his head on the great man’s shoulder, putting as much of his arm around his back as he could.  “There, now.  Nothing to apologize for,” he said.  “You’re all right.”

(And in the silence, Bull managed to quiet the narrative coursing through his mind, an incessant pain that had thrummed into being the moment he knew he had a daughter: _You’ll have to try to love her, somehow._ )

(He knew, now, that he wouldn’t have to try.)

\--

“I decided what I’m going to name her,” Bull said, during breakfast in bed the morning after.

“Ah, have you?” Dorian said.  “Do tell me.”

Bull grinned.  “Embrium Asskicker Pavus.”

Dorian, holding the newly-dubbed Embrium, had the blankest of expressions on his face.

“Kada-an,” Bull said, with a teasing whine.

“No.”

“But it’s the name I _want_ , kadan…”

(Dorian agonized over whether or not he was being sincere.)

“...could we, perhaps, reconsider the middle name?” Dorian managed, with a pained smile.

“Okay, how about Embrium Badass?”

Dorian looked down at this child, his child, mentally testing the names with her face.

“Or… not,” Bull said.

Dorian sighed.  “Might we settle for Embrium Calcitrix and call it a day?” he said.

(Hoping Bull might recognized the poeticized crassness.)

Bull smiled. 

(He did.)

“Embrium Calcitrix Pavus,” he said.  “Now that’s badass.”


End file.
